


A Hundred and Twenty Days

by ClementineStarling



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Bestiality, Comment Fic, Crossdressing, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Femdom, Feminization, Kinbaku, M/M, Masochism, Non-Sexual Bondage, Orgasm Denial, Pegging, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various prompt fills for <a href="http://unsettledink.livejournal.com/112061.html">unsettled's commentfic!war</a></p><p>B/C unless chapter-title says otherwise.<br/>Mixed ratings, ranging from Gen to Explicit. Overview see notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The best you can do [Coward/Irene]

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding ratings + kinks + content/prompt:
> 
>  **1\. The best you can do*** Explicit | femdom, forced cunnilingus, Coward/Irene  
>  **2\. Blood** Teen+| haemophobia  
>  **3\. Madness** Teen+ | Blackwood is insane  
>  **4\. Lapdog*** Mature | bestiality  
>  **5\. Ageplay:** Gen | non-sexual  
>  **6\. Witchcraft** Teen+ | AU: Mary Morstan as Blackwood, Irene Adler as Coward  
>  **7\. Mess*** Explict | crossdressing, feminisation, rimming etc. corsets + sweaty and sticky after sex  
>  **8\. What If** Mature | masochistic fantasies: What would B do if C ever left him  
>  **9\. Spinning A Web** Teen+ | B realises where he knows C from  
>  **10\. Bound*** Teen+ | non-sexual rope bondage, suspension  
>  **11\. Mardi*** Explict | femdom, pegging, Coward/Irene  
>  **12\. Mardi, part II** : Explicit | femdom, orgasm delay/denial, Coward/Irene
> 
> *can be read simply as porn without knowledge of fandom  
> (judging from the clicks, you people come here lured by the kink tags, right? :P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the_me09 prompted:   
> “Coward/Irene or hell Coward/Irene/Blackwood IDK but I've been jonesing for something Coward/Irene since the movie came out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sub!Coward, Domme!Irene, forced cunnilingus

The blow comes unexpected, a sharp sting that almost throws him off balance and makes his head spin.

“Is this the best you can do?” Her tone is every bit as cutting as the slap.

Coward's gaze flicks towards Blackwood in a request for guidance, who only cocks an eyebrow in amusement, his answer unspoken: _You asked for this, Nicholas_ – and well, he knows it's no use to argue now, that this was not what he had in mind – , darts back to Irene in front of him. Her expression bears no resemblance to Blackwood's, she seems truly irritated, her cherry-red lips curled in an expression of disgust. Her hand is still raised, ready to strike again, should he displease her. Coward's cheeks burn, as much from humiliation as from the slap.

He knows how to respond, he has been trained well, but to this moment it has been Blackwood's privilege alone, he has never-- he bites his lip.

“Answer her, boy,” Blackwood says in this voice that never fails to fill Coward with a bone-deep desire to obey.

Coward lowers his eyes, shakes his head. “No, Mistress. Forgive me.” 

Irene clicks her tongue in impatience. “Well then prove it. Prove that you are not entirely worthless.” She gathers the skirts of her nightdress again to expose her sex, that strange landscape of folded flesh. 

Coward swallows. He feels the weight of his lord's eyes resting heavy on him. He can do this. Shuffles closer and opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue to lick a tentative trail along the tender skin, so, so careful. He expects to be disgusted, sickened by the taste and smell and texture, as much as the thought abhors him, but somehow his body betrays him, makes him sway further into this heat, this gaping hollowness of the female sex. His tongue delves deep into the mystery, lips mapping unknown land, brushing against that tight bud above the opening.

Irene shudders, her hand on his head, pulling him closer. She is wet against his mouth, a glassy, salty fluid mixing with his saliva, Coward tries to lap it up, quick, forceful strokes that elicit small jolts of pleasure. Irene's fingers bury themselves in his hair, the sensation of pain familiar, soothing. She moans when he sucks experimentally, the small bud of nerves swelling under his tongue.  
Coward's grin is pure smugness as he realises the parallel, sucks harder. Perhaps this is not so strange after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Brilliant follow-up by viceindustrious](http://unsettledink.livejournal.com/112061.html?thread=1021629#t1021629)


	2. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> scrapbullet prompted "Coward or Blackwood is haemophobic. This makes the ritualistic ceremonies somewhat... interesting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: blood & gore

The blood runs slick along the blade. Crimson hovering on its edge, gravity suspended for the blink of an eye. And when they finally fall, these viscid drops of wrong-coloured rain, they are slow, too slow, and too loud they shatter on the floor, the whole vault echoes with the sound.

Is this magic?

Coward sways, the racing of his pulse fading to a dull throb, his vision blurs, spots dance in front of his eyes. He feels numb.

Before him, the body lies unravelled. Life sliced apart. Beautiful and gruesome and meaningless now that the heart has stopped beating. A mess of useless tissue, the soul has fled its cage of broken bone. No more desperate gasps for breath, no more involuntary twitch of muscle. Curious how pain looks so much like pleasure, Coward thinks as the knife slides from his fingers.

The stone swallows the impact, everything has gone soft as clouds, the darkness a caress, dots of light like snow flakes, but where is the power in this? Where is the lightning strike of energy? There is nothing but the silence of the void, its jaws opening wide, the pull of the great nothing, and then he is falling.

He wakes, curled up against a wide chest.

“You've done so well, Nicholas.” Blackwood's tone is affectionate, sympathetic, and Coward closes his eyes again, unable to do or say anything that would make him feel better.

How he hates to be praised despite his weakness, as though finally he succeeded in the struggle against his ridiculous deficiency. As though he wouldn't succumb to it every time. He cannot stomach the lies, the mollification. He'd rather have Blackwood mock him for it, punish him, instead of being so patient about his shortcomings. He hates himself for his frailty. For the irrational fear he simply cannot defeat, no matter how hard he tries.

But Blackwood will have nothing of it. Not now, not ever. Holds him tight, strong arms wrapped around him, the gentle brush of breath upon his temple, lips so close, it could almost be a kiss, and the words like a warm blanket, and still-- something is wrong, a slithering in the incense, a presence in the dark. There is still hunger and greed, thick in the lingering iron, a stench of death, older than the fresh slaughter. The horror, perhaps it is real?

“My Lord.” His voice is but a whimper, a plea in the dense silence, unheard.

All he wishes is for it to stop.

But it will happen again, Blackwood will demand it, not once, not twice, maybe a dozen times or a hundred, Coward dares not think about it – and every time it will invoke the same terrified flutter of his heart, the smothering tightness settling in his lungs, stealing his breath. Every time it will feel as if he himself is drowning in blood, swallowed by nightmares.

And yet he will not hesitate to take up the knife. What else can he do?


	3. Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unsettled prompted "insane Blackwood"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: murder of a woman

Coward is late for the meeting that night, urgent business has kept him – though he knows at once it was a mistake not to reschedule and put the Order first when he hurries the stairs up to the assembly hall, taking two steps at a time. Instead of serene silence an agitated babel of voices is greeting him, reverberating from the sacred walls like blasphemy. As he reaches the landing, he sees that everyone is gathered in the antechamber, while Sir Thomas is apparently trying to calm the waves of overboiling emotions. “Gentlemen, please,” he says with raised hands, “quiet, please, let's be reasonable about this.”

“Thank God you are here, Coward,” Standish says, slightly breathless: “It's Blackwood, he's gone entirely mad.”

It takes a moment to draw a short synopsis of the evening's events out of him. Apparently Blackwood burst into the scheduled séance accompanied by a woman of ill repute and caused some sort of a scene, that somehow, Standish does not seem too willing to elaborate, resulted, unfortunately, in the death of that poor girl and a subsequent outrage among the order members.

“So Blackwood is still here?” Coward inquires coldly. He has no patience for squeamishness, not when so much is at stake. If one of their midst were talk to the authorities about this, they would have an uncontrollable scandal at their hands. So it is of the utmost importance to deal with this quickly and efficiently, so no one will even begin to develop the idea, it could be their responsibility to intervene.

Without further ado he leaves Standish and makes his way through the crowd. As he is reaching the closed doors, someone offers him a gun.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he says, shoving the offered weapon aside, and turns the handle. The large double doors swing open and Coward steps inside.

He cannot quite say, what he has expected, but it was certainly not the scene that awaits him.

The room is dim, the usual lighting for a séance, only their altar is blazing golden in the candle light. Blackwood cowers on the stairs leading up to it, a strange animal in his leather hide. He toys with a knife, long fingers spinning it idly, his gaze lost somewhere in the distance while he is murmuring what could be an incantation or a prayer.

It's only when Coward steps closer that he realises the floor is wet with blood. A woman lies sprawled inside the magic circle, her limbs twisted in a grotesque, unnatural manner, as if struck down by an unearthly force. Coward swallows, his stomach heaving.

“Henry,” he says as softly as he can manage and Blackwood's head snaps up. His face-- Coward can scarcely control the surge of terror welling up in him. Henry's beautiful face is a mask of madness, a devilish grimace, the eyes almost black, his lips awfully contorted, teeth bared.

“Henry,” he repeats, and this time something like recognition flickers over Blackwood's features, something that smooths out the queer snarl and lets him appear almost normal.

But then he says something, that disturbs Coward more than anything else he has seen before.  
“My Lord!” His entrancingly deep voice echoes through the room and Coward shivers. “You have answered my call,” Blackwood whispers, comes, no, crawls closer, his face alight with something akin to zeal, fervour, rapture, and even stranger – devotion.

Coward fights the urge to retreat, to flee this madness, but he is either too indecisive or Blackwood too fast. Blackwood clutches at the legs of his trousers and looks up at him in reverence, as if he were some sort of divine apparition.

“How beautiful you are, my Lord, how magnificent.” He leans down to kiss the hem of Coward's trousers, the top of his shoes, and Coward's breath stutters at the sight.

He reaches out to lift him up, only to find thankful, worshipful lips pressed against his fingers and Blackwood still on his knees. “I am so honoured you would come, o Shining One, Bringer of Light. I am your humble servant. Command and I shall obey.” Blackwood's tongue is sweet as fire on his skin, but this is not right.

“Henry,” he says a third time and raises his hand to cup his cheek, “It's Daniel, not Lucifer.”

But Blackwood seems not to hear him, just looks at him out of glazed over eyes and waits for instructions.


	4. Lapdog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> viceindustrious prompted "Bestiality. Any animal. Any boy. Any way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin: Dog!fic. Not so overly graphic and yucky, but still. Yucky enough I suppose.

Coward waits the better part of three weeks, waits until he feels Blackwood's absence too keenly to stay away. He knows he should not call on him unless invited, but he cannot help it, the longing has grown into a nuisance, a constant gnawing emptiness in his chest. He can't scarcely concentrate on work anymore, can't do anything than think of Blackwood, his hands, his mouth, his cock. His name is in the rhythm of his heart, throbbing. That's why he decides to break the rule, waits for a Sunday afternoon after nightfall to sneak up to the house like a thief, and ask for admittance to Blackwood's rooms, a nervous numbness to his stomach, and his gladness is indescribable, when he is not turned away.

Blackwood is in the library, reading, and Coward realises at once how much he is intruding – the scene that he is facing is one of the utmost harmony. Blackwood sitting in an armchair, a book in is right hand, the head of a giant dog resting on his left thigh. Blackwood's fingers are sprawled fondly over the broad skull and the animal seems as enthralled by him as any creature.

“What do you want, Coward?” he asks without looking up from the book.

“My Lord--”, Coward begins, but his usual eloquence has deserted him. He has not thought as far ahead, and what could he say really that would not be inappropriate? Something as pitiful as I missed you, Henry? Surely Blackwood can guess as much.

Of course he can, Coward sees it in the exasperated expression with which Blackwood sets aside the book and reverts his attention to him. “Have you come to waste my time?”

It's only when Blackwood addresses him that the dog seems to take notice of him too, shifts his big square head and looks at him, a gorgeous animal with its dark brindled fur and that strange sneer typical for its breed. Coward shifts, uneasy.

“I came to offer my services,” he says weakly.

“Who do you take me for, Coward?” Blackwood hisses, his tone clearly irritated now. “I said, wait for my summons, and you disobey me. Why is that I wonder? Oh, let me guess – your wantonness got the better of you. Is that it? Do you feel your need to be fucked outweighs all other objectives?”

Coward's stomach squirms with something that is neither just anxiousness nor simply arousal, but the most intoxicating cocktail of both; he feels the blush rise on his cheeks, red hot embarrassment.

“Is that all you can think of, Coward? Are you really nothing but a shameless little whore?”

Coward bites his lips, uncertain how to react. This is not what he has hoped for. He considers leaving, when Blackwood says: “Take off your clothes,” and again Coward's stomach cramps with apprehensive delight, foreboding mingling with desire, but he is swift to obey and soon is bared to Blackwood's scrutiny.

“Just what I thought,” Blackwood comments on the state of arousal that is revealed by Coward's nudity. And then he does something, Coward has not, could never have counted on. He pats the dog on the head and says: “Go on, Argos, say hello to our visitor.”

It takes Coward every ounce of self-control he can muster, not to bolt, but stand stock still and wait for the dog to pat closer. He is positively mortified when the dog begins to sniff at his crotch, lifts his hand to push it away, but Blackwood says: “Let him”, and Coward simply cannot bring himself to defy the order. He gives a small yelp, when the dog begins lapping at his sac, rough tongue on delicate skin.

“Did you know that in the last century, lap dogs were trained for such services?” Blackwood says as if this were all just an amusing conversational topic, “It's been said that a dog does not even have to be educated on how to perform cunnilingus. Now in your case, I think you should give Argos the opportunity to hone his skills. Why don't you sit on the sofa and spread your legs?”

Blackwood must have cast a spell on him, for Coward does not even think about refusing, just drops on the settee obediently and lets the dog go on with its ministrations. He somehow doubts this is the first time, for the dog is very thorough in his attentions, licks his balls, his hole, his cock with abandon while Blackwood watches, his gaze heated.

“What a remarkable sight you two are,” he says. “Perhaps you should go down on your hands and knees and let Argos fuck you. I think you would love it, it's said to be very satisfying.” Coward's cock gives a twitch at the thought, an involuntary reaction stemming from fear, he tells himself, not from arousal, even though he feels all numb already, his thighs shaking.

“You know how a dog's cock only fully expands when it is inside its partner's body”, Blackwood goes on, “it swells until the dogs are locked together, unable to separate until the male dog has spent himself in the bitch. Would you like that, Coward? Being knotted by my dog?”

And Coward comes under the rough dog tongue with a strangled sound of surprise.


	5. Ageplay [non-sexual]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> scrabullet prompted "Blackwood/Coward. Age play. (Would prefer non sexual but what the hey, if you think it'd work sexually, go for it.)"

Henry tells him about it in his usual manner: controlled, precise, matter of fact.  
“It is not sexual,” he explains at Coward's raised eyebrow.

“And you... you trust me with this?” Coward feels elated and nervous at the same time.

“Whom else would I trust?” Henry replies and smiles, and Coward knows then that he has no choice but to grant him this wish.

__

Once he's gotten used to it, there is something oddly calming about sitting on the sofa, skimming through the newspaper and having a cup of tea, while Henry lies on the carpet, nose buried in a book.

“What is it about?” he will ask later, when he tucks Henry in, unmoved by his protests about the earliness of the hour. And Henry will tell him of epic adventures and brave heroes, with shining eyes and colourful words.

Later still, his imagination will, on occasion, get the better off him, and woken by nightmares he comes scrambling into Coward's bed in the middle of the night, crawls under the blankets and snuggles close and Coward can't help but press soft, gentle kisses into Henry's hair and hold him until he is fast asleep again.

But there is never anything to be learned from these bad dreams, as soon as the sun is up they are forgotten and Henry is keen as ever to have Coward read to him from one of his books. “Oh please, Daniel, please-please-please,” he will cry in delight and Coward never finds the resolve to deny him and secretly revels in the enthusiastic hugs he receives upon giving in.

Henry will curl up against him then, head resting on his chest, completely entranced by the story, while Coward strokes his hair absent-mindedly.

Sometimes the surge of fondness he feels in these moments is utterly overwhelming, too much warmth and love to process properly, and he gets all choked up with emotion. Naturally Henry wrinkles his nose at such displays of affection, but nevertheless endures Coward's words of endearment and praise patiently, as long as it will earn him some sweet in return.

At other times, Henry can be an actual little devil though, coming up with all sorts of antics, and every once in a while he goes too far, and Coward has to get out the ruler, or the cane, put him over his knee and give him a sound beating. It's only for his own good of course. As much as it pains him to chastisise the boy, he would not want him to grow up into a nefarious degenerate, would he?


	6. Witchcraft [Irene/Mary AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> scrapbullet prompted  
> "Let's get some more ladies in here, shall we?  
> Mary Morstan in Blackwood's role, and Irene in Cowards."

A panic is simmering in the bowels of the city that has not seen its likeness in centuries. _Witchcraft_ is the word on everyone's lips, a whisper threatening to swell into rumour, a shared knowledge of an arcane practice to be passed on from person to person until eventually it will have grown into truth. Irene has already seen people cross themselves when Mary's name is spoken. Bloody Mary, who slew innocent boys. Unholy Mary, who rose from the grave in a perversion of Christ's resurrection, devil's whore reborn. 

Irene would not have believed in the power of superstition, _had not_ believed in fact, until she witnessed it with her very own eyes. In comparison to the massive waves caused by Mary's return form the dead even the outrage about the sacrificed boys had been but a small ripple on the waters of public opinion. They were upset, back then, appalled by such a heinous crime against the stronger sex. But now London is in a frenzy. The fear is palpable in the streets. The trade in charms and talismans thrives. There is not a street corner anymore, on which no artefacts are sold that promise to ward of the evil eye or protect their owners from curses and spells. Irene almost regrets not having planned on exploiting this opportunity herself. It would have made her rich. Or even richer that is. 

But during the last months her mind has been otherwise occupied. 

“What if it doesn't work?” she whispered into the darkness of their bedroom that very last night, as much blasphemy as lover's oath, and it took all of Mary's considerate talent to allay these worries with soothing words and wicked fingers.

“Do you trust me?” Mary asked, when Irene was so close her thighs were trembling, her whole body straining against her bonds, ready to fall apart at her mistress' command, the answer like a prayer on her lips – yes, yes, _oh yes_ – and the following kiss so sweet, though not quite the reward she'd been hoping for. 

“What a needy little thing you are,” Mary said, looking down at her with an amused smile, nothing less than a goddess in Irene's reverent eyes, “You will trust me then that I shall come back to finish this, darling, won't you?” And she laughed at Irene's moan of despair.

But she had every right to do as she saw fit, for Irene was and is and will be only a tool in her hand, a willing instrument for Mary's ascent to power, pledged to her, body and soul, and Mary in turn has never let her doubt the favours she will bestow upon her once they have triumphed. 

And now finally the time has come to reap the fruit of their labours, finally the months of longing, of chastity have drawn to a close. Only a few steps separate them from their victory. Soon Irene will claim her rightful place at Mary's side, soon everyone will know her for what she really is. Not _just a woman_ , a disposable trophy, weak and vulnerable like a butterfly, but a supreme being, who bows to no man, a creature superior to all those sorry male apes. It is a thought that never fails to curl her cherry lips into a smile, an expression most people misread as a sign of submission, even such brilliant minds as Sherlock Holmes or James Moriarty. Fools the lot of them! There are sharp teeth in this pretty mouth of hers and they are ready to bite. Tear out throats if necessary. And yet they do not suspect.

Nor does the little boy, who jumps in her way, holding up a newspaper. “Do you want to buy one, Miss? Read all about the mysterious death of Sir Thomas, Chief Justice.” Rotheram's sullen visage stares at her from the paper, and Irene can't help another one of these false smiles. 

“Thank you dear,” she says kindly (another lie), pressing the coins into the newboy's ink-smudged hand. How terribly behind the course of events these papers are. Today it should have already been Standish's face that adorns the front page. It is a testament to their accomplishments nonetheless, and Mary will surely be interested in the things people have to say about her late father's demise.

As of yet there has not been a death that filled Mary with as much glee as Rotheram's, and Irene dares to hope she might again come to enjoy the pleasurable effects of this delight. Mary can be so passionate when there is still blood on her hands.


	7. Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for vice's prompt "A man wearing a corset! Any fandom, any boy!"  
> and unsettled's "Something about someone enjoying the whole 'very sweaty and sticky after sex' thing"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make this as _filthy_ as possible. ;)  
>  Contains: Crossdressing. Feminisation. Slurs. Rimming. Lube. Saliva. Sperm. Sweat. It really is a mess.

Sometimes Blackwood indulges him. Takes him, disguised as a woman in a long hooded cloak, to the oriental suite of an exclusive brothel, and undresses him, reverently, kisses every slice of pale, tender skin he reveals, while Coward sucks on the pipe and enjoys a glass of the heavy spiced wine they serve here. The lamps cast strange patterns on the walls and the air is swollen with smoke and incense. A brazier flickers, adding more heat to the already stuffy room. It's easy to forget, this is still London, not a far away realm of djinns and sorcerers.

Blackwood kneels before him, unbuckling his shoes, then lifting one foot with a careful hand, Coward wobbles slightly, attempting to keep his balance, when Blackwood gently slips the shoe off his foot and sets it down again, then takes the other one, repeats the movement; it makes Coward almost feel like a fairy tale princess. Blackwood's hands trail from his ankle upwards, to the rim of his stockings, unclasp the fastenings with nimble fingers. He presses a lingering, open mouthed kiss on Coward's thigh as rolls the silk stocking down over his shapely leg, his touch so electrifying on the exposed flesh it has Coward gasp. 

Blackwood looks up at him with something akin to worship in his golden eyes.  
“I'm going to lick you open until your cunt is dripping for me,” he says and Cowards slaps him for it, only half playful, with enough force his palm print blooms bright red on Blackwood's cheek.

“That's no way to speak to a lady,” he says in mock indignation, but Blackwood only laughs and nuzzles his face into the crook where Coward's leg meets the hip, so, so close to where Coward wants his mouth, he almost lets go of his glass.

“You're no lady, you're not even wearing drawers under your petticoats,” Blackwood murmurs against the chemise, the flimsy fabric dampening with warm breath, and Coward tries to inhale sharply, but is prevented from this unladylike behaviour by the relentless restriction of his corset. It's like an iron band around his chest, unyielding, so he just pants instead, shallow, breathless, “They're no use anyway. Only another redundant layer. I would not have thought, you'd placed any importance on an additional item to remove.”

“Do you doubt, this excites me?” Blackwood leans closer, his thighs bracketing Coward's leg, the hard outline of his cock unmistakable through the thick wool of his trousers. Coward's knees buckle, he sways, uncertain whether from intoxication or lust, but Blackwood catches him, holds him with strong hands. “We should get you out of the corset, before you faint.”

He stands and Coward promptly falls against him, pressing himself to the wide, firm chest like a swooning woman and Blackwood gives a low huff of amusement. He runs his hands appreciatively along the artificial curve the corset creates by compressing Coward's natural form; he always exaggerates the tightness of the lacing, so eager to impress; it wouldn't be the first time he actually fainted for lack of air. Once Coward blacked out while Blackwood fucked him, and although such a scenario has a peculiar appeal of its own, it's not what Blackwood has in mind. Deftly he loosens the knots on Coward's back and releases him from his fashionable prison. 

Coward heaves a sigh of relief and lets himself slump on the divan, now only clad in his loose, sheer shift that scarcely leaves anything to the imagination. It rides up his thighs, almost exposing the tenderness of his balls, and where Coward's cock stands impatiently against his belly the fabric is already soaked in precum. As if the sight were not enticing enough, Coward stretches seductively. 

“Now what did you say you wanted to do to me?”

Sometimes this is the moment when Blackwood loses control, pushes him backwards into the sheets and his legs apart and leans over him, still fully clothed, pins his wrists above his head with one hand, the other fumbling with the buttons of his trousers to retrieve his cock. His kisses are more like bites then, bruising and brutal, and he growls like an animal when he thrusts into him in one smooth merciless movement. 

Coward loves him like that. 

But today, Blackwood is utterly composed as he begins to unbutton his waistcoat, his shirt, watching Coward with a cold, calculating glint in his eyes.  
“Show me how wet you are, whore,” he says, and Coward almost moans, he bites his bottom lip just in time to stifle the sound, gathers the fabric of his chemise and pulls it upwards with slightly trembling fingers. 

His legs twitch, spread themselves automatically, his hips lifting from the mattress-- he is but a puppet and Blackwood draws the strings. How else could he bear the shame of his wantonness? To be open like this, oil glistening wet between his thighs, hole pink and stretched and inviting, and oh, how Blackwood smiles. So proud, and so predatory.

“That's nice,” he says, “but not nearly as slick as I would have you. I want to you to be soaking.” His smile widens when he sees how Coward's cock twitches in response, the flash of teeth inhuman in the lamplight, and Coward can only think of them buried in his shoulder, drawing blood.

“Please,” he mouths, soundless, his hands roaming over his thighs as if to spread himself even further apart.

Blackwood watches how he touches himself, only where he knows he's allowed to, never his cock or his balls or his hole, but everywhere else: his nipples, the hollow of his stomach, the jut of his hipbones, the crease of his groin. He is offering himself, advertising his body, which is so ready to be taken.

But Blackwood resists the temptation to hurry. His finger remain steady as he sheds his garments, slowly, piece by piece, until he is completely naked. He allows Coward a good long look, before he kneels between his spread legs, trailing a hand upwards to the apex of Coward's thighs, both of his thumbs brushing against the wrinkled flesh of his opening. Coward's breath catches. His legs are trembling slightly with anticipation.

“Please,” he whispers and then Blackwood leans down with a wicked grin and licks the sensitive skin in a wide, wet, long stripe that makes Coward squirm in delight. “More,” he demands, and Blackwood gives him more, licks him open with a greedy tongue, just as he promised, pushes into him until he is loose and slick and incoherent with desire. But even then Blackwood is not satisfied. He gets more oil, tips the bottle and pours it directly into Coward. The oil is cold and Coward shrieks with surprise and twists under him, trying to escape, but Blackwood holds him down with ease, spreads the oil generously over Coward's balls and cock too, which quickly distracts him from the initial unpleasantness. 

“That's better,” he says, studying the gleaming mess he's made of Cowards genitals and his delicious little hole, “Now you're ready to be fucked, wench.”

Coward's whole body clenches at the words, a sick, sweet sensation, a throbbing, itching want, and he hears himself mumbling a series of _yes yes yes please_ and _fuck me, give me your cock_ , and then Blackwood is inside him, still huge and thick and so good, despite all the oil and spit that cause the most obscene noises, and Coward wonders how Blackwood can stay so calm and composed when he is buried to the hilt in the tight, slippery heat of his body and he himself is close to passing out, barely holding on to sanity.

“Look at me, while I fuck you,” Blackwood says, fingers buried in the damp strands of his hair, and “Do you hear how wet you are for me, you filthy whore.” 

And Coward can't do anything but obey, stare at him, glassy-eyed, breath coming in short laboured pants, matching Blackwood's thrusts, listen to the vulgar squelching sounds, the sticky slap-slide of flesh upon flesh; he clutches at Blackwood, who is hot to the touch, feverish, the sheen of sweat gleaming on his brow, he digs his fingernails into the hard muscle of his back, the round, firm arse, pulls him closer. His stomach is slippery with precum by now. Coward imagines the pearly fluid, hanging in threads between their bellies like cobwebs, like a strange sort of glue. He claws at Blackwood, arcs into him, seeking more friction, and at last Blackwood gives in, sinks his teeth in his shoulder, and bears down on him with his full weight, the drag of skin too much on his cock, and Coward is coming in violent spurts of seed between their bodies.

“That's it,” Blackwood murmurs softly against his ear without losing his rhythm, “give me all you have.” And he keeps pushing into him, grinds himself against him until Coward isn't sure, whether he whimpers with pleasure or with pain. He feels raw despite the slickness, his nerves on fire, when Blackwood finally comes too, flooding his insides with even more wetness. 

It's only when he rolls of him, that Coward can fully appreciate what a mess they have made, his chemise is drenched in sweat and oil and sperm, even though it is bunched up around his chest; his belly is even worse, Blackwood drags a lazy finger over the slippery plane, along his softening cock, which – when touched – still gives a weak twitch, down to his balls and the fucked-open hole. Coward feels the fluids trickling out of him, feels Blackwood's satisfied hum in the marrow of his bones as he dips a finger inside him, then another, without meeting any resistance, only glorious wetness. 

He thrusts deep, angling upwards to brush the pads of his fingers firmly against Coward's prostate, and he sobs, almost screams, it's a shock, too soon, he's still too sensitive, but he knows what this means; it means Blackwood is not yet done, not by a long shot, and he braces himself.

Shorty thereafter Blackwood brings up his fingers, glistening with a mixture of scented oil and his seed, a stomach-churning combination. “Open up, slut” he says, “I want you to taste your little cunt, before I fuck you again.”


	8. What If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vice prompted "Coward asks Blackwood what Blackwood would do if Coward ever tried to leave him. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: masochism, mentions of mutilations

“Sometimes I wonder,” Coward begins, stretching lazily between the pillows. His skin is aglow with the satin-shimmer of sweat and the rose-flush of arousal; he looks lovely with his lust-darkened eyes and tousled hair, and he knows it. It's in these situations that he likes to babble, perhaps because Blackwood is more willing to listen when he is sated, perhaps because he is more forgiving, and Coward can take liberties, which on other occasions would call for harsh words at the very least.

“Sometimes I wonder what you would do if I ever left you,” he says, a challenging gleam in his eyes, the brazen mouth lush as a ripe fruit, lips still red and swollen from Blackwood's passion, and Blackwood is inclined to kiss him silent, but he knows it will be no use. Coward won't shut up until he's expressed his most recent musings.

“What do you _think_ , I would do?” he asks instead of ravishing Coward's mouth, contenting himself with trailing a finger over his sensitive flank, observing the goosebumps springing up in its wake.

“You would catch me of course,” Coward explains with such enthusiastic conviction, Blackwood can't help but smile. He takes Coward's hand and presses his lips to his knuckles. 

“Go on,” he says.

“You would find my hideout without difficulty. Probably I would have rented a room in a shabby hotel. I might have already made it as far as Calais.” 

Blackwood can see now where this leads. “Do you think I would be angry?”

“Oh, you would be _furious_! You would slap me. Hard. Hard enough for my lip to split.” Coward's tongue darts out to wet his lip, taste the imaginary blood that has gathered there. He has such a vivid imagination. “You would pull me by the hair and drag me to your coach, paying no heed to my screams of protest.” 

Coward shifts closer, so Blackwood can feel his growing hardness against his thigh. That little insatiable wanton! It's an erotic fantasy he is telling him here.

“Let me guess, I would wear my leather gloves?” Blackwood says.

“Of course would, and I would be clad in naught but a thin night-shirt, scarcely enough to cover my nakedness.”

“Naturally,” Blackwood remarks, clearly amused now. “And then?”

“You would touch me in the privacy of your coach, lift my shirt, stroke me, tell me what an ungrateful, faithless slut I am.” Coward presses himself closer, his erection trapped between their bodies, and he gives an involuntary shudder.

“That sounds more like a reward than well-deserved punishment.”

“But I would be so afraid and shivering with cold and humiliation,” Coward says. “Besides, you would tie me up once we got home and punish me properly.”

“That sounds more like it... what do you think I would do to you?”

“You could whip me,” Coward suggests.

“Do you think that would be appropriate for so grave an offence?”

Coward's eyes go wide, his breath comes shallow now.  
“I suppose you could do anything you saw fit.”

“I could have you branded, as one does with runaway slaves” Blackwood says, and Coward gasps at the idea. It's almost a moan, not quite the effect, he intended, but good to know anyway, he takes a mental note for future reference.

“I could take a foot, so you couldn't run anymore,” he continues, “or your pretty eyes. That would still be more merciful than charge you with high treason. Have you hung and drawn and quartered like they did in the old days.” These words do find their mark, and Coward, bless him, grows all pale. He looks so pitiful, Blackwood feels nearly sorry for him, but then he did ask, didn't he?

He reaches for Coward's flagging erection, squeezes, just a little too tight to be pleasant, but Coward moans nonetheless. He likes it rough, a little violence never fails to get him all hot and bothered, and Blackwood is yet to find out how much pain he can actually stand.

“Let me tell you what it is I would do if you ran away,” he whispers, enjoys how Coward freezes beside him, rigid with apprehension. “ _Nothing._ I would do nothing. I would let you go, because if you were to decide you didn't want to be with me, you wouldn't be worth the effort it'd take to catch you and drag you back home.”


	9. Spinning A Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> scrap prompted "Prior to climbing the political ladder, Coward worked in a molly house... Blackwood knew he recognised that pretty face from somewhere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a rough draft, but first and foremost I want to stay in the flow, and that probably means I have to accept that not everything turns out so great, but... you gotta have priorities, right? (Yeah, some of you know why I'm saying this! ;))

There is something familiar about Coward. Something he cannot quite fathom; no matter how long he stares at him or how much he racks his brain, he neither gets to the source of the feeling nor does he succeed at ridding himself of it; the vague sense of familiarity remains, as if they had met before, even though Blackwood is certain they haven't. He would have remembered, Coward is too well connected, too successful, too much of what Blackwood looks for in a potential ally to be simply forgotten. No, he is convinced he would have recalled if they had ever been introduced.

If he could watch Coward without the nagging question in the back of his mind, he could enjoy the ease with which he moves through society – whether it's the Lords, the club, the order, Coward never seems out of place or lost for words. Not for one moment. He isn't someone at the centre of attention, not like Blackwood to whom people flock as if following a magnetic pull, but someone who is sought out for a few whispered words and the reward of his smile.

Blackwood sees how people long for Coward's smile, finds he's begun to long for it himself. 

But he waits, waits until one evening Coward comes to him of his own accord. It's one of these social events dedicated to two purposes, acquiring husbands for last season's debutantes and forging business connections, possibly both in one stroke. Not that Blackwood would be inclined. He hasn't need of either. What he is looking for are political allies, and he can hardly marry every eligible daughter of Britain's aristocracy for that purpose, can he? He does play along though, is utterly charming, dances with the ladies, insinuates interest in business endeavours when talking to the men.

Coward waits for the perfect moment to catch him alone, picks up two glasses from the nearest footman on his way over, and the manner in which he offers one to Blackwood again rings a bell somehow.

He must have frowned because Coward smiles at this expression, disarming as ever, and raises his glass. “You will recall eventually,” he says and takes a sip, before he slithers back into the crowd.

He must have known that admitting they had met before would be an equivalent to declaring open season on him – Blackwood's predator-instinct is too strong for him to let go once he's set on a track. Perhaps therein lies the answer, Blackwood thinks, perhaps Coward wants to be chased. So that's what he does. 

Though, whatever Coward may have expected, Blackwood has no patience for coquetry. He doesn't make inquiries but corners him one night after an order meeting in a dark, desolate part of the cellars, presses him against the wall, harder that necessary, about to make him talk- yet it turns out he doesn't have to. One glance at Coward's face is enough to have everything fall into place: This is so very obviously the reaction Coward wanted to provoke. He wanted to be hunted and caught and roughed up, Blackwood can see it, clear as day, in the way Coward's eyes darken and his lips open and his cheeks colour with excitement. He looks so young and vulnerable like this and at last, Blackwood makes the connection.

He used to frequent a certain establishment, eleven, twelve years ago, a very exclusive club catering to the more exotic predilections. To call it a brothel would have been too narrow a definition, though providing pleasure was its general objective. The owner understood that distraction can be so much more than merely the fulfilment of carnal desires. That's why the house employed a number of high class companions for other kinds of stimulation – for conversations about art and music, philosophy and politics, too, if desired; a service too perilous for Blackwood's taste. People grew careless after a while, tended to talk themselves into trouble. He would not have dreamed of telling a whore anything about himself, let alone his secrets, because a whore remains a whore, however educated, and you can't trust someone who makes a living selling affection. But a great many men of position were foolish enough to employ such services.

There was a young man who was especially high in demand, as witty as he was gorgeous, his friends assured him, but Blackwood never caught more than a glimpse of the boy. He remembers him being of this pestilent sort of beauty that had so many a man brought to ruin, for they weren't able to resist the lure of sinful lips or the sweetness of a youthful body, even if their life depended on it. And he remembers the boy spinning a web with the accomplishment of someone born for intrigue and conspiracy. He only saw his snares and strings from afar, and he was careful never to get too close, yet he did not miss how his victims kept vanishing from the social stage, one by one. He didn't think much of it back then; as long as such antics didn't interfere with his own plans, he had no reason to put an end to them. After the first indications of scandal he stopped visiting the establishment though, unwilling to risk getting caught in the crossfire, and he forgot about the entire affair soon after. 

He is not sure he'd ever have recognised the pretty prostitute in Coward, but now that he knows he wonders why he did not see it from the very beginning – he isn't an ethereal creature on the cusp of adulthood anymore, but he is still pretty in this maddening sense that invokes the desire to own him, and from what Blackwood has seen of him, it's exactly what he's aiming for.

“What do you want?” he asks and lets go of him, a move Coward apparently hasn't anticipated because he almost loses his footing, takes a step towards him to regain his balance. The dim light of the corridor cast strange shadows on his face, or perhaps it's just Coward's cheerful expression that's somewhat odd, given the circumstances.

“So you _do_ remember me?” he asks.

“Yes, I do,” Blackwood says, going through possible reasons for Coward's unlikely confession in his head, but he can't think of anything Coward could use for extortion without incriminating himself. Which naturally doesn't mean, there couldn't be anything he's simply forgotten about.

“I was so much in love with you back then. So desperate for you to take an interest in me,” Coward explains, and if it's an act, it is perfect. All of his demeanour, every last little gesture looks genuine – the softness of nostalgia around his mouth, the glitter of enthusiasm in his eyes, the slightly nervous tremble in his hands as he straightens his waistcoat, smooths the fabric of his trousers. But then, such a performance is the bread and butter of his former trade. Blackwood has to remind himself that he must not fall for it. That none of it is true, even though, he realises, he wants to believe it. Wants to grab Coward and press him back against the wall and kiss him senseless.

“I was waiting for you,” Coward whispers, “hoping, and yet you never came for me. You had every boy, everyone but me, and I was _so_ jealous.” His tongue flicks across his lips – such a blatant invitation, such impertinence of him to assume... 

“And you think it's finally your turn?”

“I've seen you staring at me.” 

“I was wondering where I knew you from.”

“But you stared nevertheless. Maybe it was just an excuse for staring, maybe you like looking at me?” Coward takes another step toward him, is so close now their bodies nearly touch again.  
“Would you like to look at me? _Properly_.”

Blackwood's hand clench into fists while he tries not to imagine what a breathtaking sight Coward must be, lying naked on his bed. He is not a simple whore anymore, he is an influential man, the price for this might be much too high to be in any way reasonable. And yet he cannot help ask again: “What do you want, Coward?” 

And Coward understands that this time it means they have entered negotiations.


	10. Bound [non-sexual]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical [non sexual] Kinbaku.  
> Blackwood needs more power, Coward is willing to give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for scrap's prompt "B/C - rope bondage: Blackwood taking his time with each and every coil and knot, calm and composed, making sure that blood flow is never restricted and that Coward is comfortable. It's all about control - of the give and take, and the way Coward melts as the rope tightens. The suspension is a further act of trust.  
> Would prefer non-sexual, but if you've got ideas for the otherwise, I'd be intrigued."
> 
> Vaguely inspired by [this performance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxV3bc1aues).  
> I blame all illogical aspects of this fic on magic. *shrugs* Obviously nothing to try at home. :P

No mage in London has trouble gathering acolytes these days. Reeling them in is easy, the occult is fashionable enough. Keeping them is what's posing a challenge. Not everyone's prepared for the effort true magic takes, for the sacrifice it requires. Few care for more than hocus pocus and card tricks, a bit of evening entertainment. A séance for the believers, or an orgy for the adventurous, that's what people are looking for. 

Blackwood, however, offers _so much more_. He commands powers others could not even dream of. But they come at a price. Time for once, and effort and skill and diligent studies. But also energy. Life. Coward has seen how drained he looks after a ritual, how hollow-eyed, the skin strung tight over his skull, his veins unnaturally close to the surface, and he immediately, with the certainty of a kindred soul, understood that Blackwood's ambition knows no bounds. He will pursuit his goals not only without regard to others, but also without concern for his own well-being. He accepts no law but the principle of his own will, pushes against the rules of reality with all his strength, determined to bend them to his liking. And while he does succeed, the cost is terrible: the magic is a fever, burning him from the inside out, eating at him like consumption.

One time Coward catches him with a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, the soft cotton soaked in crimson, and Coward finds that he fears for him. Finds that he fears for him as he's never feared for anyone, never _felt_ for anyone. He would lay down his life for his lord and master if only he asked for it. But he doesn't ask and Coward is certain it's not in regard to his protection, but because of Blackwood's pride and arrogance, because he thinks he can do it without him, and he realises he is disappointed not relieved.

So he kneels one day, kisses Blackwood's gaunt hand, and offers himself. “Take what you need from me, my Lord, I am willing.” 

And Blackwood only eyes him with a shrewd expression before he reaches out and lifts him to his feet. “You have no idea, what it is that I need, Coward,” he says, but he accepts his aid nonetheless.

And Coward braces himself for all sorts of violation – being sliced open, being broken and hurt, being taken in a sexual fashion, prepares for blood and pain, but it's not what Blackwood does to him in the end.

He touches him, gently, unlike he's ever touched him before, almost like a lover, though without the urgency of desire. He undresses him slowly and with care, before he has Dredger bring the rope, thumb-thick and simple, made from undyed hemp.

Coward's mouth goes dry with a queer sort of anticipation as he watches Blackwood's long fingers unravelling the first bundle; he is still not certain Blackwood won't hurt him - why else would he bother with the rope? 

Blackwood steps behind him, so close he can feel the warmth of his body.  
“Do you trust me?” he asks and Coward finds himself nodding. And it's the truth. Whatever it is, Blackwood wants to do to him, he has decided to entrust his life to him and give gladly what is required to further their cause, which is after all, so much more important than his own welfare.

The last thing Coward sees before Blackwood puts the blindfold over his eyes is how Dredger crouches down to draw the magical circle around them. After that he only _hears_ the chalk scratching on the stone floor, the rustling of Dredger's clothes when he moves, the light foot falls. Nothing happens while Dreger is working, Blackwood just waits, his hands on Coward's upper arms as though to keep him from running. As if Coward would ever run. As if this were not, at least until now, exactly what he's always wished for. He can hardly imagine a position more intimate than feeling Blackwood's breath upon his neck, the reassuring hold of his hands, the way he is almost allowed to lean into Blackwood's body... 

Then Dreger lets go of the chalk. The circle is closed and of a sudden it feels as if all air has left the room. There is a weight pressing against his chest, and Coward gasps. His breathing comes shallow, almost panicked. It's then that the darkness is unfolding its dreadful effect. He cannot assure himself, there are no nightmares detaching themselves from the shadows to gather around him. He tries to make out signs of their presence, the faint tapping of feet for example, but there is only the sounds of candles being lit around him, only one pair of familiar feet. It's Dredger. Just Dredger.

Coward waits for receding footsteps, for hinges to creak, the door click shut, but he can't hear anything but his own breathing and his own heartbeat. Dredger is still somewhere in the room, watching.

Blackwood murmurs something in Latin, he doesn't catch. It is soothing though, as are Blackwood's hands sliding downwards over Coward's forearms. Carefully he lifts and bends them so they are folded behind Coward's back. The first sling of the rope goes around Coward's wrists, then another loop before Blackwood lays the rope over his upper arms, so it runs over his chest. He threads it through the first loop and repeats the movement, then he steps back, probably to admire his handiwork.

He has not tied one knot, Coward thinks. Not yet. 

The rope is no less tight for it though. Coward flexes his muscles experimentally, but the bonds won't budge. They secure his arms in this odd position, not painful but also not comfortable. It takes a moment until he realises he doesn't need to _hold_ himself like that anymore, that in fact the rope is not giving him a choice, and he feels how he begins to relax, how he begins to surrender to the bond. 

Blackwood must have noticed because he makes a satisfied sound, nearly a purr, and takes up another bundle of rope.

Coward focus is beginning to shift. The darkness behind the blindfold becomes softer as Blackwood weaves another rope around his body. The hemp is coarse against his skin, Coward knows it will most likely cause rope-burn, but it's also sturdy; it will hold him together when he'll be close to falling apart. There is something indefinitely calming about the idea.

When Blackwood puts his hand on his shoulder in a silent order to kneel, his body reacts of his own accord, his knees have hit the floor before he's even realised he moved. He should be hyper aware of what Blackwood is doing, how he threads another rope through the bonds around Coward's wrists, slings it through a hook above him, and pulls, not tight enough to lift Coward off the ground, just enough to make him feel the strain. But somehow he isn't. His limbs adapt automatically, as if he were putty in Blackwood's hands. His brain does not catch up with it until several heartbeats later.

He listens to them, mesmerised. His heartbeat is low, steady. As is his breathing.  
He listens to the sounds around him. The heels of Blackwood's shoes on the stone floor. The fabric-whisper of his clothes. The faint grating of the rope. The rusty metal squeak of the hook that carries part of his weight. There is another sound in the background, like a nearly indiscernible murmur; it could be a prayer or an incantation or a summoning. 

Blackwood lifts his right feet of the ground, coils the rope around the ankle. Being half suspended in the air is strange; the stone is hard under his left knee cap, but the pain of it is distant and surreal. His mind seems to be fraying more and more. His thoughts have become fuzzy. How long has this gone on already? He can't remember. It feels like half an eternity. 

Blackwood tugs at the rope. The hemp cuts into his skin. A reminder he is still here, in this body, even though the energy is seeping from it, he is getting weaker, he is melting inside the harness, Blackwood weaves around him. He is safe and he is vulnerable.

There is more rope, coil upon coil, sling upon sling, soon the floor is merely a memory, gravity pulling him against it like love. His body is entangled, limbs twisted into unnatural positions, but his mind easing with every new loop of string around his body.

Blackwood tips Coward's head backwards and ensures he has to stay like that, throat stretched into a long line – an offering. He is blind and defenceless, caught in a net like the fly in a spider's web, and yet he is calm, calmer than he's ever been. It's almost as if he could reach out past the boundaries of this mortal vessel, into whatever divine realm lies beyond.

He is floating. 

His sense of direction is fading; after a while he's not even sure anymore where is the ground. Maybe there is no ground at all, maybe there never was.

Time has stopped. Or it has grown more viscous, it is trickling slow, slow, slow, like the power running out of him. Blackwood's hand rests between his shoulder blades, hot and hotter against his cooling skin as he drains the energy from him. _Take it, take it all _, Coward thinks. His consciousness is dimming; in the black behind the blindfold waits a deeper darkness, but he is not afraid, and it's only now that he realises why. He's in love and love is selfless. And if the height of this romance will be to feed his master like a fly sustaining a spider, so be it. He only hopes, his sacrifice will be enough. That it will have value. He can ask no more than that.__

__Blackwood knows, Coward can sense it in every line of his palm, every fingertip pressing into his dissolving skin. He is still in control, even now that Coward is crumbling. A control that keeps him from attempting final struggle against the gaping hollowness of oblivion. It is already too late._ _

_If this is death, warm and soft and almost cosy, it is much friendlier than I expected_ , Coward thinks just before he loses himself in the cotton wool feel of emptiness. 


	11. Mardi [Coward/Irene]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ♥ The Return of Domme!Irene ♥
> 
> Fill for vice's pegging prompt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domme!Irene/sub!Coward  
> vaguely related to chapter one and vice's [fantastic Irene/Coward fill](http://unsettledink.livejournal.com/112061.html?thread=1021629#t1021629)
> 
> Obviously I'm going through somewhat of a 'plain porn phase'... #sendhelp
> 
> Naughty typos and grammar mistakes must be reported for punishment!  
> (Please be lenient with the commas though!)

The day following the night of Blackwood's arrest is the first cold day of the season. It's as if autumn had come overnight to plunge the world in a sudden state of mournful decay; its rattling breath stirring the leaves on the streets into a danse macabre. The air is saturated with the premonition of death. Clammy as a crypt, Coward thinks and pulls his coat tighter around him while he tries to concentrate on the burning Blackwood has left in him, the soreness, the hurt, tries to hold on to it, even though he knows it's a lost cause. Bruises are only fleeting keepsakes, and every fever breaks in time. 

That, or it kills you.

Coward would gladly die from the inflammation of Blackwood's presence, from the touch chafing him raw, the passion licking at his insides like fire, eating at him with insatiable greed. But Blackwood is gone and all that is left are the chills of a passing fever.

“Don't fret,” Blackwood said the evening before, cupping Coward's cheek in his palm in a gesture of loving reassurance. Such a rare gift of tenderness, and yet Coward couldn't treasure it, could only think about the time that lay ahead, countless days and hours and minutes and seconds separating them, maybe eternity if things didn't work out as they'd planned.

Now, faced with the realisation of Blackwood's scheme, Coward does as he is told and tries not to worry. Keeps up appearances. Smiles politely at everyone who congratulates him on apprehending the monster that's murdered all those innocent girls. Comes up with as many eloquent sentences and witty remarks as anyone could expected of him. But inside the cold is gaining ground, growing and growing with every passing day. His bed feels empty at night, the sheets grave-chilled and dank as a prison cell, and in his dreams Blackwood's rotten corpse is swinging from the gallows.

_

It's been a week that Blackwood was imprisoned in Pentonville when the letter arrives; a whole week since they last had relations, almost one hundred and sixty-eight hours since Blackwood touched him on the eve of their Sabbath, thrust into him deep and hard and fast to make sure he'd feel it for as many days as possible, but that reminder is fading, as is the memory of his heated passion. There is nothing but cold and emptiness and a dull sense of desolation. It's been a week of too many minutes (about ten thousand to be exact), but then Coward comes home and a letter is waiting for him, bearing his name in that shockingly familiar handwriting, and something like a spark of hope is kindled in his chest.

He slumps into the next armchair, his fingers trembling in the attempt to rip open the envelope, when the butler informs him that there is also a lady is waiting for him in the parlour. “A Miss Irene Adler, your lordship”, he says with a barely concealed sneer that reminds Coward of Blackwood's express wish to get rid of the man. “He is presumptuous,” he said. “Insolence is not a trait to condone in a servant.” But Coward has no time for such deliberations. Not now.

“Irene Adler?” he echoes. The name is like punch to the stomach. He's got his taste in her mouth in an instant, the sweet, heady slickness of her cunt. He swallows. His hands are still fumbling with the letter, almost of their own accord. “I told you I thought of everything” it reads when he finally manages to unfold the page. Nothing more. 

Coward places the letter on the little table next to him with a shaking hand, then rubs his sweaty palms against the fabric of his trousers. Her scent is filling his nose, the memory so real Coward is inclined to doubt his sanity: how intoxicating it was to lap at her, to lick up her juices mingling with Blackwood's seed. But there is more than recollection of her taste and texture of on his tongue, he recalls the image of Blackwood's cock slipping inside her, splitting her open, thrusting deep, the easy slide of his flesh against hers. How she straddled him, small hands curled into his chest, delicate claws intent to draw blood, and how he just laughed at her roughness and fucked up into her with abandon, his mouth pressed against her lips, open, hungry. Coward remembers everything with minute accuracy, causing a flood of sensations to spring up in his veins.

“I will find someone to take care of you while I'm gone,” Blackwood murmured, a couple of weeks ago, in the aftermath of their love-making – and Coward didn't think much of it. Perhaps his mind was too muddled with sleep and sex to process the words properly. Perhaps he simply could not imagine back then whom Blackwood would entrust with this task, which man he'd deem worthy of such responsibility, and so he forgot all about it, even though apparently Blackwood didn't.

_I told you I thought of everything._

So it's not a man, it turns out. Coward doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed about Blackwood's choice.

_

Irene stands with her back to him when he enters the room. She is facing the fireplace, a glass of brandy in her hand, staring into the flames much like Blackwood used to. It's only at the second glance that Coward realises she wears a black leather coat that's a twin to Blackwood's and when she turns, he can see that all her garments are identical to Blackwood's clothing: the brocade waistcoat, the tie made from black silk, even the trousers. If Coward had entertained any doubts about the purpose of her visit, they would be scattered in the face of the obvious. She is clearly here on Blackwood's behalf.

Apart from the attire she looks nothing like his lord of course – she is soft where he is hard, curvy where he is angular, petite where he is tall. But there is a certain severity about her that speaks to something inside him in a very similar way as Blackwood's dominance. It is familiar to a degree that makes him want to fall on his knees and kiss her feet; but then he can't do so without permission.

“Coward,” she says, as if surprised to find him in his own home. “How lovely.” 

She smiles and he can't help noticing her lips are indecently red, a colour of ripe fruit that makes his mouth water. He tries not to stare and keep a blank expression.

“Miss Adler,” he says in a perfect imitation of his official persona 'Lord Coward, Home Secretary'. “What a pleasant surprise.”

She studies him for a moment, just long enough for him to take notice of her scrutiny, the beadiness of her black corvid-eyes. When she walks over, the sway of her hips hypnotising. There is still a smile on her lips when she comes to stand before him, but it's not a benign expression. She reaches out her hand, touches his cheek, though her tone belies the gentleness of the gesture:

“You forget your place, boy. Address me properly when you speak.” 

Coward lowers his eyes, embarrassment blending into relief. He knows how to proceed from here. “Yes, Mistress.”

_

Her fingers press into his scalp, determined but not cruel, just enough firmness for guidance. 

She had him lead her to his bedroom, had him strip naked and get to his knees before her. It's a familiar position, Blackwood preferred to have his cock sucked like this, and Coward heart aches at the thought. He is grateful for Irene's attention, but he doubts she'll be able to give him what he truly craves.

“Don't think,” she says, reading his mind. She tilts his head so his eyes are directed towards her crotch, where the fabric bulges impossibly, almost as if...

She opens her trousers to retrieve her cock, which is marvellous and alien at the same time. Black, sleek rubber cast into a shape that Coward would recognise _always_ , blindly if necessary, among all the male organs in the country. It's a perfect imitation of Blackwood's cock at the height of arousal, accurate to the last detail, the slight curve, the thick, bulbous head, the vein on the underside – Coward is intimately familiar with every feature and although this is only a replica he is throbbing with desire at the thought to have it inside him. 

Irene is stroking herself, languidly, teasing, just as Henry would do it to whet his appetite, and Coward imagines Blackwood in his prison cell, controlling her movements by means of magic. He will worship him through this fetish, do him proud.

“He said you'd like it,” Irene comments and nudges the tip of her boot against Coward's own cock that has begun to stir and swell, and Coward has to suppress the urge to rub himself against her. It would be bad form to try without explicit permission. 

“Now give me your mouth, boy.” She hardly waits for him to open his lips before she pushes inside him.

The sensation is as familiar as it is strange; the shape – width and length – is like he remembers, but the weight is different, and the texture too. The rubber is softer than expected, not so unlike skin, only its taste is odd, even though he believes to detect a hint of Blackwood's cologne and something else, sweet and salty and faintly metallic. Coward gasps when he realises what it is, and Irene gives an amused chuckle.

“Good boy,” she says, when he's doubling his efforts to cover as much of her cock with his mouth and tongue. “Yes, just like that, make it wet and slick, so I can fuck you with it.” And Coward sucks and licks as if his life depended on it, until he is almost delirious with lack of air.

Irene isn't as cruel as to rely just on his saliva to ease the friction. She allows him to prepare himself, quickly, with eager, well-practised fingers, before she sinks into him. Slow, slow, so slow. He can't say if she does it because she wants to be gentle with him or because she likes watching him squirm and gasp, short of begging for _more_ and _harder_. He is certain she would not appreciate that, not so very early, he is to behave himself, and so he settles for _please_ and _god_ and _Mistress_.

She likes when he calls her that, likes it even better when there is a desperate whine to his voice, and rewards him for every time he says it like that with a thrust that is a little deeper, a little harder, just where he needs it the most.

She takes him bent over the bed, a position that would still allow him to think of Blackwood, and he does try, but her movements are different. It's not that she seems clumsy or inexperienced, she's certainly done this before and she is stroking him in all the right places, deep and thorough, but there isn't the full weight of anger behind the snap of her hips that he's grown accustomed to. It's only when he hears her make the first sound that he realises, she is mostly in pursuit of her own pleasure, uses him in some way to achieve the necessary friction. But how? He is so ignorant of the workings of the female sex, never cared much for it, given his proclivities. Most of what he knows she taught him herself, directly (by allowing him to put his tongue into her, lap at her with the enthusiasm of a dog) or indirectly (by letting him watch Blackwood fuck her). Perhaps – the thought of Blackwood pushing inside her, brings on an idea – perhaps the godemichet is double-faced like Janus, and while she is penetrating him with Blackwood's cock, she is fucking herself on it too?

Irene must have felt him drifting away, because she tightens her fingers on his hips, nails digging for bruises under his skin, and it's half the pain, half the pleasure of her cock pushing against his prostate that centres him. “Focus, boy,” she hisses and gives another, almost vicious shove that has them both gasping.

The sensations are spiralling from the point brushed by the tip of her cock, fuelled by the slide in and out and in. A numb heaviness is pooling in his belly. Coward's breath comes short and humid against the pillow. His forehead on the mattress, braced on his arms he could easily spare a hand to stroke himself to the rhythm of her thrusts. 

“Mistress, please,” he pants, “may I touch myself?” 

She laughs, slightly breathless herself. “You're a greedy little thing, aren't you? Henry warned me you would be insatiable. I already have my cock in you and you still want more?”

“May I, please, Mistress.” Coward tries the needy whine again, but this time it fails to achieve the desired effect.

“No,” Irene says, tone flat. “You may not. And don't you dare disobey my orders.”

The denial makes Coward's cock throb between his thighs as though it added to his excitement, when most likely it will prevent him from reaching his climax. He can try though, it wouldn't be the first time he managed to come untouched. He shifts a little, attempts to get all possible friction from the penetration, directing all the blunt force against his prostate, and hopes it will be enough.

It does not work though; the more he wills himself to satisfy himself with the stimulation he's granted, the more his body screams for that extra bit, just one tug of his hand, or two, or three, it shouldn't take much, his cock feels so heavy already, his bones too soft and the skin too small. Coward is struggling for air. He imagines it's actually Blackwood fucking him, Blackwood's real flesh and blood-cock not a facsimile made from rubber. It doesn't help. All it achieves is to wind him up tighter. Tighter than he can bear.

He still hasn't given up hope when he feels Irene's pace falter, another handful of thrusts, then she is stilling behind him, her breathing unnaturally loud in Coward's ears. His heart is like a thrum in his chest, still pumping hopeful arousal through his veins. She could still go on – rubber won't lose its hardness.

When she withdraws, he literally sobs with frustration, his hole clutching around nothingness. He is so empty. 

“Stand up,” Irene says when she's caught her breath again.  
He stands, just as Blackwood has taught him, wrists meekly crossed behind his back, gaze towards the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her circling around him, climbing onto his bed. She makes herself comfortable on the covers, the black rubber cock is still hanging from her open trousers, glistening with oil. It looks so thick and large in contrast to her petite figure and dainty hands. 

She pulls her plush bottom lip into her mouth while she studies his posture, the straightened shoulders, the flushed width of his chest, the trembling hollow of his stomach, and most of all the bold upward-curve of his erection. The seconds tick away in the clock of the mantelpiece, racing with his heartbeat.

“You may touch yourself now, but you will not come unless I say so.”

Coward takes a deep breath, that could almost be a sigh of relief. “Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

The touch of his fingers is cautious at first, as if he were afraid his cock would shatter like delicate china if he grasped it too firmly. Even this little contact is almost too much. If he's not careful, he'll embarrass himself. He strokes up and down, tentative.

“Put on a show, Coward,” Irene demands, apparently dissatisfied with his performance, “and don't forget the oil.”

Obediently Coward reaches for the bottle.

 

~tbc


	12. Mardi, part II [Coward/Irene]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domme!Irene/sub!Coward: Irene watches Coward pleasuring himself. But will she allow him to come?
> 
> Sequel to the last 'chapter' that I abandoned mid-scene.

His grasp is slippery when he takes himself in hand again. His insides feel empty and heavy at once. As if his whole body is collapsing, gravitating towards this one sensation, the awful pressure of his fingers. Coward takes a deep breath before he begins to stroke himself. The friction of skin on skin is significantly diminished by the lubricant. A small mercy. 

He tries not to look at what he's doing, how obscenely his cock slides between his fingers, swollen, flushed, glistening. He can't trust himself not to lose control once he not only feels but _sees_ the state he's in. He never watches himself doing this, it's enough to know he is watched. That a gaze is resting on him, filling him with a serene quiet, an eagerness to be good. It helps not to follow the instinct to thrust into his own fist, again and again, mindlessly chasing that moment of absolute abandon. He's an animal in that regard, Henry told him so countless times, and he was right. Of course he was right.

But he can be better.

Coward moves his hand, up and down and up, just as he was told. It does not take long for him to lose all sense of time; it could have been two minutes or five or ten. Something in his mind gives way while he is pleasuring himself, some sort of tension breaks. It melts and fades and is gone. And oh, he is so good! So well-behaved. Every few strokes he rewards himself for his self-restraint by brushing his thumb over the exposed tip of his erection, testing the wetness there. He has to bite his lip every time to suppress the moan that's building inside his throat, a sound that would give away at once the urgency of his condition. 

He's not allowed to stop and certainly not allowed to come, but he is already so close. Perhaps he was too greedy? He tries to loosen the grip, further reducing the friction of his hand on the reddened, silky flesh. Tremors are running through his thighs, he grabs for the bed post to stabilise himself. The weakness is spreading like poison. His climax seems imminent, unstoppable, just one more stroke--

“Hands off,” Irene says, a command that is every bit as cutting as one of Blackwood's, and without thinking Coward pulls his hand away. His cock gives a throb, this uncontrollable twitch that makes the fear bubble up that maybe, maybe he didn't stop in time, and Coward _prays_ it isn't too late. He digs his nails into his palms, hard, but even the sharp sting of it can't prevent the thick dribble of cum leaking out of him. He isn't even sure if it was an actual orgasm though. It surely wasn't the overwhelming rush he'd hoped for, but then he can't deny the evidence of his pleasure either. Not when it pools on the floor before him. 

He doesn't dare to look up. It is obvious his Mistress must be disappointed with him. He _has_ failed her after all. But the silence, the uncertainty is even worse than the prospect of her anger.

“Forgive me,” he begins. “I didn't--” 

Irene cuts him off. “I don't need to hear your apologies.”

She stares at him, as he stands there, cock still hard, hands behind his back. What a sight he must be.  
“You may kneel”, she says at last and he drops to his knees with so much relief, he is almost convincing himself for a moment, this could actually be a reward. 

Irene crawls to the edge of the bed, leans down to grasp a handful of his hair. She isn't gentle, but her words hurt more than her touch. “I must say I expected better of you,” she says. “Henry promised me you would give your best to please me, and now look at yourself. Look at the proof of your failure.” She increases the weight of her hand, forcing him to bend over, clearly intent to press his face into his semen staining the floor, just like one would stub the nose of a puppy into a puddle of its own piss to house-train it. 

Coward sticks out his tongue to clean up the evidence of his shortcoming, but Irene tightens her fingers in his hair. “I did not say you could do that. You should be used to waiting for orders, boy. We wouldn't want you to get the idea, you could decide such things on your own, would we?”

She adjusts her position, swings her legs over the edge of the bed and sits up. The sole of her boot comes to rest against the back of Coward's neck.

“It appears Henry was too lenient with you. Indulged you in your fancies. Spoiled you. You still seem to believe this is all about you and what _you_ want. How utterly foolish. But don't worry, I won't shy away from this task. I'm determined to use my time with you to teach you the true meaning of submission.” 

Coward's insides squirm with a mixture of arousal and fear – he wants this as much as he dreads it. Whatever she chooses to do to him, he is excited for it. 

“I think you had too many liberties for a slave.” 

Coward shivers at the word and its implications. He used to think of himself as a humble servant, a devoted subject, but a slave? To be owned, without a will of his own to give up, to sacrifice; to be just a thing, a mere toy. The thought fills him with terror, but also with anticipation.

“Creatures like you should not have to deal with freedom,” Irene muses, “You can't handle it, it just gives you the wrong ideas. Maybe we should start with a period of chastity, just to take your mind of your cock for a bit. You know, lock you up so you can't play with yourself. I do think that would be beneficial.”

It seems to take ages for Coward to get soft enough to be squeezed into the device Irene brought with her, a beautiful metal thing reminding him of a bird cage. It's cold and alien against the skin, worse than shackles, he imagines. He never felt so vulnerable, so much at anyone's mercy, and the fact Irene is so gentle when she locks him up makes it no less unbearable. He flinches when she trails her fingers over the crease of his groin, the quivering muscles of his stomach. 

“Hush,” she says when he gives an involuntary groan as she pinches one of his nipples, then another one when his cock tries to rise and is held back by relentless metal.

“See how much you need your cage, pet. Just a bit of teasing and you're already aroused.” She clicks her tongue in mild disapproval. “You really can't help yourself, can you?” 

Coward, as much as he hates himself for his weakness, has to agree. He has no control over his urges. His mind is clouded with need. All he can think about is to be touched, no matter how, pleasure, pain, he'd take anything, as long as he is able to _feel_ ; he craves sensation. And now he can't even use his own hand to...

“How long, Mistress?” he whispers, afraid of the answer.

Irene only laughs. “As long as it pleases me of course, silly, what do you think?” 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess the 120 days are finally up. ;)


End file.
